


In It Together

by soritt



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cutting, Let's pretend Reichenbach never happens because I like it that way, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Self-Harm, Suicide, Triggers, not angst or is it ?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soritt/pseuds/soritt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyday life in 221B. ♥</p><p>When both John and Sherlock are self-harmers.</p><p>Triggers for self-harm. Considered yourself warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early October

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not English first language. I live on MS Word check. So I'm sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes. Tell me and I'll fix them.

_**♪1 - Early October** _

 

John is careful. He likes to prepare everything beforehand. On the side of his bed now there are his favorite craft knife, a tissue pack, antiseptic wipes and cream, dressing pads and tape. He looks at them and smiles. He likes all of his tools neatly arranged.

John looks at his wrist, on which parallel cuts run across. The oldest ones have healed. They leave behind fine lines of light pink colors. Towards his elbow the cuts turn pink, deep pink and dry dark red. John has to admit that those fading colors look great.

He needs new cuts though. He wants beads of warm red blood seeping out from his skin. He presses the tip of the blade onto his skin and slices across, again and again. Thin lines of blood appear, and then they join together as more blood leaks out. The pain registers in his head but he doesn’t mind it. He needs the pain after all.

A trail of blood is about to drip down, John gets a tissue and clean it. His blood stains the tissue just right. What a lovely combination of color! – He thinks to himself. Red smears on white. He presses the tissue harder on his cuts. When he lets go, the tissue is soaking red. Beautiful.

Sherlock dashes in as John’s about to cut again, which makes John wince until his eye-brows almost touch.

 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock! Knock the fucking door!” – John shouts.

“Sorry for interrupting.”

 

Sherlock is holding his left arm out. Blood drips from angry gashes down on the carpet.

 

“What now ?” – John asks – “You suddenly feel the need to ruin my carpet ?”

“Nope.” – Sherlock says calmly – “Just realize I run out of bandages. Can I borrow some ?”

“Why didn’t you check beforehand you idiot ?” - John shakes his head – “Second drawer top down.”

 

Sherlock kneels down on the floor and starts throwing things out of John’s drawer.

 

“How I hate disorganized people.” – John whispers to himself.

“You said anything ?” – Sherlock looks up.

“Nope. Find your bandages and get out of my room.”

“There it is.” – Sherlock finds what he needs – “Thanks” – He smiles to John.

“Great. Now piss off.”

 

Sherlock stands up and dashes out of the room, still holding his left arm out. John starts thinking about how he’s gonna clean those bloodstain on the carpet. He thinks there is some stain remover in the kitchen. Then he thinks of where he put his first-aid kit, because judging from the look of it, Sherlock’s cuts probably need stitches.

The blood from John’s cuts has dried. He sighs, then starts cleaning things up. That’s it for tonight. That’s it for tonight then.

_**♪1 End.** _


	2. Still early October

_**♪2 Still early October** _

 

Sherlock went out, said he had work to do. ‘It probably takes him a few days’ - John thinks. Mrs. Hudson also went out, said she had a date. Good for her.

So John is alone. How convenient. It’s Friday.

John turns the telly off. ‘The World at War’ is probably not a good documentary to watch when you have PTSD. The black and white videos of human bodies lying dead tickled him the wrong way. As if he hadn’t seen enough dead bodies.

John goes back to his bedroom. He likes this room best after all. The privacy he needs. Although nobody is home anyway. Nobody would see.

John takes one razor out of the packet. He takes time to look at it carefully. ‘Stainless steal’ – it says on the packet, but he can still see little brown spots. But hey, it will do its job all right. John traces his finger along the blade and carelessly slices his finger.

 

“Aww”

 

It’s just a small nice cut, not very deep. John uses the tissue to stop the bleeding. ‘That was unintentional.’ – He thinks – ‘Now where do I keep the normal plaster ?’

John opens the wardrobe to find a plaster. He has a collection of plasters of all sizes, designs and colors. Although his cuts usually need big-sized wound pad and bandages. He chooses the nice white one for sensitive skin.

Now back to the main thing.

Minutes later, John finds himself pressing the razor on his scarred wrist. Cuts over scars. John’s cuts are almost perfectly parallel, almost the same size and same depth, unlike somebody. John smiles when he thinks about Sherlock. That person cuts anywhere he wants too and his body is just a mess of crisscrossing scars of different sizes and shapes. Sherlock also burns himself sometimes. ‘Nasty wounds, those burns’ John remembers.

John thinks Sherlock’s bare body can scare off children easily. But he loves it. On countless occasions when John has to stitch Sherlock up, he always uses the chance to touch Sherlock’s skin, to feel its roughness and its strange warmth.

And John cuts. He cuts repeatedly and doesn’t bother to wipe the blood off. Because he is busy reminiscing. The can feel the pain, but it doesn’t matter. And beads of blood become drips of blood. And his arm is just bloody. And he cries. He doesn’t even know why. Or maybe he is just lonely.

 

“Sherlock, just come home.” – He says. But nobody hears. Because nobody is home. And that’s just that.

 

When John comes back to his senses, he swears for ten minutes. He curses himself for letting the blood drip on the beddings. Now he needs to do his bed again. He cleans his cuts quickly and professionally, then stands up and puts things in their places, then strips his bed and throws the beddings in the washing machine.

John thinks it’s funny, how loneliness can just creep to his mind and hurt him, as he watches the washing machine spinning anti-clockwise.

 

_**♪2 End** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched 'The World At War' this morning on Yesterday (I adore Yesterday). It was episode 23, I think. And it ended with "mushroom-shaped".


	3. Almost mid-October

_**♪3 - Almost mid-October** _

 

The tube is crowded. Thursday afternoon. John tries to walk as fast as he can. Because if he doesn’t, people will just push him forward anyway. Londoners always walk as if they were late for a job interview.  That is just because they have things to do – John thinks.

For several reasons, John doesn’t have anything to do at the moment. One of which is that he took a day off work. He has got a nasty cold. His throat is sore. This is that time of the year when many people get sick. Autumn is in the air. John coughs and says ‘sorry’ to whomever is walking next to him.

Last night he had a temperature. It was quite bad. Mrs. Hudson gave him a hot glass of Lemsip before he went to bed but it didn’t work. He coughed all night and felt like dying in the morning. John thinks it’s funny. He is an army doctor who served in bloody Afghanistan and he still needs a day-off because of man-flu.

He felt better just now so he decided to go out and  buy cough syrup and more paracetamol. Nonetheless, at the moment  he just wants to go home and lie in bed until dinner. Maybe a nice cup of tea before that.

It starts raining. John starts running. Luckily his flat is quite close to the station. He manages to get home without getting too wet. He climbs upstairs slower than normal, coughs non-stop because he was running. Being sick is annoying – He thinks.

He throws the cough syrup bottle and boxes of paracetamol on the desk, takes off his boots and jumps on his bed. Forget about the tea – He thinks – I’m tired. He can feel another fever coming his way. Nothing can be done. It’s a cold.

So he goes to bed, sleeps almost straight away. Thursday afternoon. He is too sick to cut himself doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it.

 

_**♪3 - End.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was about that sick last week. Absolutely miserable. Cough syrup tatses weirdly and sweetly bad. Lemsip never works for me.


	4. November

_**♪4 - November** _

It is a rainy London afternoon. John and Sherlock are sitting on a bench in Green Park, completely wrenched. The sodden yellow autumn leaves scatter on the ground, disintegrate. London is not necessarily sunny on a Sunday like the background of BBC News.

It was some top secret sort of things with the Royal Family. Sherlock was the same intelligent cheeky bastard. For a bit of a change, Mycroft was a little bit absent-minded in his three-piece suit and blue tie, looking out of the window. John wondered if something terrible is going to happen in Britain.

The minute the negotiation ended, Mycroft didn’t even bother to try staying calm as he rushed out of the room. John was taken aback but Sherlock decided to say nothing. John understood and kept his question to himself. It is a bit of a strange day. Mycroft forgot to provide a car for them to get home.

The plan was getting on the tube and going home as quickly as possible. But somehow they ended up sitting on a wet wooden bench and started doing nothing. It is cold. An insignificant number of tourists are wandering around with heavy backpacks and colorful umbrellas.

 

“Will Mycroft be okay ?” – John asks.

“I don’t know.”

 

Well at least John knows that Sherlock is not okay. Because Sherlock is supposed to observe and analyse everything in a matter of seconds. John looks at Sherlock and he can see a battered man. It is just one of those days when nobody is happy. They both need a hot cup of tea and some sleep. The rain is just making things worse than they already are.

 

“Shall we go back then ?”

“Yes.”

 

John stands up first. Sherlock gets up slowly. They walks side by side towards the underground station. The floor is dirty and slippy and full of wet muddy footprints. Both John and Sherlock decided to stand on the right instead of dashing down the elevator. The tube is crowded, as usual.

John truly doesn’t know what is going on in Sherlock’s head. John doesn’t even know what he is thinking himself. There is something tense in the air. Getting involve with top secrets might not be very good for one’s health. John feels uneasy without any reason.

Sherlock clenches his hands and looks up at the tube map. Sherlock knows London by heart. But he can’t help it. He just wants to get home quickly. Several different life stories of people sitting around are messing with his head. Overcrowded tube is definitely not a nice place when a genius is hypersensitive.

When John finally gets to put the kettle on, Sherlock is lying face down on the sofa. If the sound of sirens, the sound of tourists, the sound of people chatting down the road are considered a part of London wallpaper, there is complete silence in the flat. Sherlock has thrown his coat carelessly .The coat is now half on the floor half on the table.

 

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

 

It was a long time ago when they need a reason to be tired. Sherlock’s right wrist has several plasters and his left one has bandage on.  New bandages, John can tell, nicely white and carefully done. A little bit different from John’s. John prefers colorful graze dressings. He has a collection of plasters and dressing pads with different patterns and colors.  John quite enjoys putting bandage on himself, but Sherlock just wants to keep it simple.

John puts the tea tray on the table, then holds Sherlock’s arm and turns him over. Sherlock gets up and takes his cup of tea. John has put more milk than usual. Doesn’t matter. He sips his tea slowly. John messes with Sherlock’s hair a bit, ignoring Sherlock’s wince. There is nothing tea cannot improve. The room feels a little bit warmer. It is dark outside.

_**♪4 End.** _


	5. Late June

_**♪ 5 - Late June** _

 

Stamford committed suicide. Hang himself in his room after taking sleeping pills.  Somehow John was not surprised when he heard the news. At that moment the only thought in John’s mind was ‘Now he finally got rid of his annoying students.’ Though John wondered why Stamford had not taken poison or something of the sort. But John knows too well that things do not always happen like stereotypes. John dismissed his little question with a tasteless smile. Stamford succeeded anyway. Nobody knows how to kill oneself better than a doctor after all.

Sherlock is making tea. He only makes tea when he knows that John will probably just burn himself doing so. Burns are lovely in their own way, but John needs his hand to work with patients. And a bandaged hand does not go well with his black funeral suit. His reflection in the mirror doesn’t look bad as he thought it would be. Mike probably says that he looked too serious. Oh well, he is not here to make boring jokes anymore.

John vaguely remembers talking with Mike about death quite a long time ago, when they were bright and young and stupid. They got pissed and crashed at a friend’s house and shared a bed. The ceiling they were both looking at was off-white. They shared their depressing fantasies about dying. They smelled like vodka and talked like philosophers who are tired of living in this unfair world. Mike was a bit different from him though. He was never quite happy. There was always something wrong in his life no matter how kind and caring and good he tried to be.

“I want to die, John.” – Mike said when he was climbing the stairs at Covent Garden tube station one day. He said that a lot actually. He tended to casually throw a line like that in conversations. People usually just smiled and brushed it off, but John knew better. That was actually what Mike wished. He might have always wanted to run away from life. John’s urge to end himself only comes at the death of the night when he’s lonely and it’s cold. He somehow manages to find a will to live when there are people around. Mike Stamford might as well have been born ready to die, he just had many people to care for and many things to finish.    

Good for him then. – John thinks – He finally did it.

Weather forecast says that it will not rain today, so he doesn’t need to bring an umbrella. Sherlock approves, so the weather forecast must be right. John drinks tea from a black mug that goes very well with the suit and wonder if Sherlock is trying to show him that he understands. John and Sherlock have some sort of a color code for mugs; big brown ones for cold days and such. The black ones were bought from a charity shop and were never used. Today is a suitable day for those, John supposes. John doesn’t know how long Sherlock have been acquainted with Mike. It can’t be very long judging on the fact that Sherlock is somehow calmer than John. But Sherlock is unhappy because of Mike’s death no matter how many times he says he doesn’t care.

Or maybe Sherlock is just jealous that Mike found the courage, and wonder what had pushed Mike’s final button, and determined to find out.

John also wants to know why Mike decided to do it, and why he didn’t tell John. A text message would be nice. ‘I will die now John. Please call the police in the morning.’ – Simple as that. John would put a reminder in his phone and call the police first thing when he woke up. Mike wanted to die in his room, not rot in it. And he did happen to be the sort of guy who could disappear on Friday night and people would not realize until Monday morning when he did not show up at work. John feels a little bit angry at that. He was sure that Mike does not want to be found dead by bloody burglars like he actually did.

But it doesn’t matter now. – John says to himself – He’s dead.

Mike Stamford is very dead, as he wanted to. John hopes he is happy now, that bastard. Mike probably had died with a satisfied smile on his face. John desperately wants to know what the hell Mike was thinking when he kicked the chair. He starts crying again. Sherlock pulls him in a hug that makes everything hurts. Fresh cuts under his suit bleed again. John knows in the back of his mind that Sherlock must be hurting too. But none of them care because that is rather the point. And there are enough bandages to keep the suit clean anyway.

 

_**♪  - End.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Pepper Rabbit's "Older Brother" while writing this. I love that song so much I want to write many things based on it. And the very heated talk about death that was mentioned was between a 'friend' and me. He said if I died, he would bury me in the garden under his apple trees. Oh he also said I should not stain his carpet or something =)) No worries that was some months ago and I have never actually want to die (as far as I know). On BBC Watson's blog, Mike Stamford commented that the lifts at Covent Garden tube station took ages. I hate lifts so I walked the stairs when I was there. Guess what ? It was a bloody long walk! No wonder many people take the lifts. Hence the reference here =))


End file.
